


Freckles

by ridorana



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Underage Drinking, pre-game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridorana/pseuds/ridorana
Summary: “We don’t have to go far, y’know. I get that you have to run the bar and all. But... we could just get out for a little bit. A night, even. Like today? In Giza? I was thinking about maybe camping there during the wet season. The sound of rain on a tent is really nice, especially if you've never heard it before. And I could clear out a spot so no fiend would bother us. A nomad taught me a trick - Just place a thunder stone on each side of the clearing and the toads won’t come around. Plus, we could fish in the wadis. You'd have fun, I promise. It’d only be for a little bit, just us. Y’know? ...Hey, Tomaj?”Vaan/Tomaj ficlets. Chapter notes for tags.





	1. Rain

Vaan ambles into The Sandsea, grinning wide and smelling of earth and rain. Looking like it, too, it would seem - he’s soaked from head to toe. Water drips to the floor from his shaggy flaxen locks darkened by the deluge, joining the mud in the wake of his steps.

Tomaj tries to look pissed, but damn if it isn’t difficult with Vaan smiling like that. Even in the dimness of The Sandsea, lit only by magicite lanterns and candles at this hour, his toothy grin shines like a beacon when he reaches the barkeep.

“Can I use your shower?” Vaan asks with that same grin which shows no sign of fading. Upon closer inspection, Tomaj finds it's not just his feet tracking in mud - he’s covered in it. Spatters of it freckle his face from stomping about in Giza puddles and soil litters his hair. There’s a particularly dark smudge of dirt on the whimsical curve of his nose that he somehow manages to make look fetching. Still, Tomaj puts on his best Unamused Barkeep face, the one he’s learned to perfect in the two years since taking over his family’s business at such a green age. 

“You can use my mop to clean up your mess you just made trudging into my bar. What were you doing out in the Rains, anyway?”

“Wrestling toads,” Vaan says as if it’s the most obvious thing. He rifles in his satchel to fish out a water stone, swollen and dripping. “Check this out. Managed to get this out of one’s throat!”

“Cool,” Tomaj deadpans in such a way that implies It’s Not Cool, Vaan, That’s Actually Gross and Why Would You Do That. The blonde sticks his tongue out at him, a tantalizing peek of pink from equally tantalizing lips.

“Whatever. It’ll catch me a pretty gil in the Bazaar.”

“Doesn’t Migelo pay you just fine enough without rolling around in mud picking fights with frogs?” Tomaj asks, figuring that if Vaan’s going to keep yammering then he may as well keep himself busy; he polishes a glass from the wash-rack as Vaan wraps the water stone back in the burlap with a shrug.

“Yeah,” he replies distantly, before his eyes glint as he catches Tomaj’s. “But this is way more fun.”

Tomaj can’t deny the mischief in Vaan’s eyes is ever-beckoning like an Entite. Or, at least, what he’d imagine an Entite would be like. He’s heard stories, for what it’s worth; creatures of beaming light and magnetic magicks that hum and draw humes to it like a moth to flame. He likens his image of them to Vaan - all glint and warmth and a promise of something great that he has yet to unearth - and thinks he’ll do just fine without meeting a Creature such as that, as he has his hands full enough with this one.

“Anyway,” Tomaj stresses over the protesting squeak of a glass far-through with being polished, “you know where the shower is.” He jerks his head crudely to the left, where the staff door leads upstairs and further still to his flat on the top floor five stories high. “I’ll be off in a half hour, too. The gods would have it that I’m actually fully staffed tonight for once, which means I get to leave on time.”

Vaan whistles. “Once in a blue moon, huh. So uh,” he pauses to lean over the bar, dripping mudwater from his hair onto the clean pint glasses. Tomaj would be mad but Vaan’s grey eyes hold a lushness like a summer storm and he can’t look away. “Should I wait to shower, then, til you’re done here?” Vaan drops his voice an octave. Tomaj nearly drops the glass.

“No,” his voice almost cracks and he swallows. “Stop sullying my floor and get cleaned up.”

Vaan is still perched over the bar wearing a Coeurl's grin. “But whaddabout the mop?” he asks, and Tomaj wonders how Migelo deals with him day after day, let alone pays him for it. With the polish-rag in his hands, Tomaj brings it up to swipe the smudge of dirt away from Vaan’s nose with a sigh.

“Just get yourself clean, alright? And put that bottle of Chardonnay on ice up there. I want to try it after this shift.” Tomaj nearly rasps at the thought - he really can't wait for an after-shift drink and well, Vaan uses his shower and smokes his Snakehyps - he may as well make himself useful. The blonde rubs at his nose once more, and lo and behold, dirties it all up again. 

“Yessir,” he salutes, succeeding further in spattering dirty water on Tomaj’s side of the bar. With that, Vaan takes his leave; Tomaj watches him go, and wonders how this guy ever expects to be a proper thief when he makes a right mess of wherever he happens to be standing. It's not exactly ever a secret when Vaan's been somewhere. He tends to wreak a charming breed of havoc wherever he goes.

“Hey Jharak,” the barkeep sighs, and the Bangaa coworker in question grunts in acknowledgement, “grab the mop and take care of this, would you please?”

But he can’t help his grin, even when he shoves the tray of just-cleaned yet now-muddied pint glasses back in the wash.

-

Later, night finds the two boys tucked in fresh linens. A quiet has overcome the room, save for the sound of ice melting in the bucket that once held a full bottle of Chardonnay and now holds, miraculously, an empty bottle of Chardonnay.

“So, up to your standards?” Vaan asks. His nose brushes Tomaj’s freckles spotted along his cheeks. The gesture still brings butterflies beneath his ribs, warming him in a way the alcohol cannot.

“What, the wine or the other thing?” he asks, and Vaan chuckles.

“The wine. I know you liked the other thing.”

Tomaj rubs his leg against Vaan’s on the small bed cornered in his flat. All things considered, his seventeenth year has treated him well so far; and this recent improvement of tension finally teased apart has Vaan finally in his arms and in his bed - a teenage boy’s dream come true, quite literally. His skin is surprisingly soft, evidence that Vaan probably helped himself to enough of that shea-soap made by the nomads in Giza. Tomaj caresses a particularly soft patch around his shoulder idly, and Vaan rewards the affection by snuggling closer. The air would be stifling if it weren’t for the ice magicite in the corners of Tomaj’s room that keep it cool in the summer nights.

All in all, he’s extremely comfortable; the wine warms his belly and limbs until it crawls up his nerves to play at a smile. 

“So sure of yourself,” Tomaj mumbles, shifting to kiss Vaan’s lips for the umpteenth time that eve. But he won’t deny Vaan’s smug surety is well-warranted. The blonde certainly knows what to do with those lips by now, so Tomaj only shrugs. “The Chard was okay. I don’t like Archadian wines,” he mutters, “but it’ll sell with these stupid Imperials clogging up my bar, so I guess I’ll take the vendor up on their bulk offer.”

“Business, business.” Vaan yawns loudly. “You should get out more. Might have some fun.”

Tomaj laughs, but he doesn’t find it terribly funny. “Yeah Vaan, give me a few more years and I might be able to step out of the bar for half a day at the Bazaar at best.” He pulls Vaan in tighter anyway, despite the bitterness at the suggestion. There’s a part of him, on some days, that would love to throw down the clipboard and close up shop and float on the Nebra as a fisherman who never has to cut another angry drunkard off, or pour another Imperial Red Ale ever again. But he knows he can’t, just as well he knows things could be much worse for him.

He thinks of Lowtown, its darkness, its musty reek of sewer-water and filth that so many war-orphans call their home; he is lucky, by far. Here, he has a home, a bed, a shower, and a business - thrust upon him far before his years, but his nonetheless. He manages to make it work, despite the Imperials scuffing up the floors and knocking over the Galbana vases. The Sandsea has been in his family for generations, and Tomaj won't give it up simply because it's _hard_. But oh, the days _are_ long sometimes, and his body aches to a point where he's become used to the pain in his feet and back. He mirrors Vaan's yawn, long and loud.

Vaan must sense this, because he falls quiet for a while too, enjoying Tomaj’s idle touch along his sunsoaked skin. Then, when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “We don’t have to go far, y’know. I get that you have to run the bar and all. But... we could just get out for a little bit. A night, even. Like today? In Giza? I was thinking about maybe camping there during the wet season. The sound of rain on a tent is really nice, especially if you've never heard it before. And I could clear out a spot so no fiend would bother us. A nomad taught me a trick - Just place a thunder stone on each side of the clearing and the toads won’t come around. Plus, we could fish in the wadis. You'd have fun, I promise. It’d only be for a little bit, just us. Y’know? ...Hey, Tomaj?”

Tomaj doesn’t remember falling asleep to Vaan’s voice, but his tired body weighed by wine and comfort relents to the fantasy of hearing rain patter against a canvas tent outside, the summer storm’s redolence vibrant in the air, and Vaan’s body just as close as it is now. 

No, even closer.

As Tomaj dreams, he finds that it all indeed sounds very, very nice. But this is just as good.


	2. Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomaj is missing a crucial ingredient, and Vaan's the one to figure it out. Pre-game, pre-ship.

It’s late. Rabanastre is quiet outside as the streets wind down. Restaurants shut their doors for the night, and the bazaar vendors fold up their tents. Inside Tomaj’s flat above The Sandsea, it too is quiet save for the sound of warm, bubbling spices and rice. 

Vaan stomps up the five flights of stairs with all the grace and subtlety of a sewer-addled Gigantoad. Tomaj rolls his eyes as he hears Vaan’s approach - he’s probably done a great job of disturbing every off-duty Imperial the rest of the flats are rented out to below, and  _he’ll_  be the one who has to get an earful of it. Being a bar-owner and essentially a landlord has Tomaj wondering how he’s able to stand on his own feet to cook dinner after a long day, but he supposes it’s all just adrenaline at this point.

That, and Vaan’s smile upon bursting through the door doesn’t hurt either.

“What’s cookin'?” he says, dropping his patched rucksack on the floor in a heap as he toes off his shoes. Tomaj stirs the pot’s innards and glances back over his shoulder.

“Curry--or at least, that’s the goal,” Tomaj answers with a bit of a self-deprecating laugh. He returns his gaze to the recipe card pinned to the wall and scrutinizes it further. “This is an old recipe of my gramps. I was thinking of adding it to the menu downstairs and adjusting it for bulk batches." He sighs. "But I can’t seem to make it taste right.”

Vaan appears behind him and props his chin on Tomaj’s shoulder. Somehow, Tomaj's knees don't give in with what small amount of pressure Vaan's chin applies. After ten hours on his feet, the barkeep often thinks if a feather so much as landed on him he’d collapse, but Vaan’s warm, comforting presence is no burden.

“Lemme try.” Vaan plucks the spoon from Tomaj’s hands and before the brunet can do more than make a noise of protest, Vaan’s lips are already closed around it. Tomaj predicts what happens next - Vaan drops the spoon and fans at his open mouth as piping curls of steam waft from his tongue like a firewyrm. “Hot,” he manages to pant, and Tomaj can somehow find no place in his heart to summon pity from with  _that_  little performance.

“Uh, yeah, it was boiling, you idiot,” he mutters, picking up the spoon to then fetch a clean one. “And anyway, I was gonna say--it needs something. I’ve followed this recipe to a T and I think old gramps must’ve left out an ingredient.” Tomaj sighs over the sound of running water, because Vaan is busy splashing it in his scalded mouth.

"Ginger,” Vaan chokes out when he’s done making another mess of everything. Water drips from his lips to the floor and he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Needs ginger. Did’ja put in any?”

Tomaj peers over his shoulder at Vaan before redirecting his gaze to the recipe card. “It doesn’t mention ginger,” he mutters. Vaan joins him again and snatches the card. 

“Then your gramps really _was_ old when he wrote this, ‘cuz all Dalmascan curry has ginger. Ya got any?”

“Uh,” Tomaj starts gracefully, gesturing to the cabinet “This is all still just my parents’ spices left over. Check and see.”

Vaan rifles through the cabinet, barreling his hand through every labeled phial until he’s standing on his tip-toes to reach the back. When he makes a noise of triumph, Tomaj snatches the phial from his hands. 

“Ginger, huh?”

Vaan snatches it back.

“Uh-uh. Let me do this. It’s clear you never cooked anything if you didn’t even know it was missing ginger.” With his hip, Vaan nudges Tomaj out of the way of the stove and stirs the pot. Tomaj scoffs.

“Yeesh, didn’t realize you were a real cook. I got an opening downstairs, wanna take it?” he’s half-joking, but the look of concentration in Vaan’s eyes as he gingerly taps the phial’s innards into the saucepan has Tomaj thinking it might not be such a bad idea after all.

“Nah,” Vaan says as he stirs. “I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from spitting in every Imperial customer’s dish.” 

Tomaj makes a sour face. “Nevermind then.” He sees where Vaan’s coming from, but he still runs a business, dammit, and Vaan would do well to keep his trouble out of it.

He watches Vaan bring the spoon to his lips before he blows on it experimentally. Then, to Tomaj’s surprise, Vaan holds the spoon out to him.

“Well? Try it. He was your gramps, not mine. See if this hits home.”

Vaan’s hand cradles beneath the spoon to prevent spillage, and Tomaj leans forward to taste. His brows raise to his hairline, and he makes a noise of approval.

“Damn, Vaan.”

Vaan chuckles. “Was that it?”

“Yeah,” Tomaj breathes, and grabs the recipe card to read it over again. “That’s all it was missing--jeez. It...yeah, that’s it.” With a smile he looks at Vaan, who returns it twofold - all teeth and dimples and things that ignite butterflies in Tomaj’s belly. Vaan rubs at his nose, smug.

“What can I say? I got the best taste buds in town.”

Tomaj reaches to the stove’s heat settings and turns it off to let it simmer. “You could make some money doing that--go to every restaurant in Rabanastre and tell them what’s wrong with their food.”

Vaan laughs and his nose wrinkles up in a way Tomaj will never not find adorable. “Oh yeah, that’d be rich.” And here, he puts on his best Archadian accent, which even at its best is still terrible. “ _Excuse me, my good man. Whomst've prepared this? You? Ah yes,  then it would appear this dish sucks because you made it. That’ll be ten thousand gil. Chop chop._ ”

Tomaj’s laughter joins Vaan’s in the small apartment above the Sandsea. Soon after, they’re both doubled over gasping for breath. When the joke finally simmers down with the rest of the curry sauce, Vaan nudges Tomaj again, playful and familiar.

“So, two bowls, right?” he asks, grabbing the dishes from the sink. Tomaj is still chuckling, but manages to nod anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling at his uninvited yet certainly never unwelcome guest. “Two’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty @explodingnebulae for chatting vaanmaj bullshit with me all the time and throwing me the idea of grandpa curry


End file.
